


Tea

by im_engineering_shes_biochem



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, BAMF Jemma Simmons, F/M, Leo Fitz Feels, Original Character(s), References to Shakespeare, Snark, Tea, Teasing, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:39:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4287609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_engineering_shes_biochem/pseuds/im_engineering_shes_biochem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the night before Midterms, and the campus café is crowded with studying students.  Simmons wants tea.  Fitz wants a friend.  Shakespearean insults ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a contest entry on Wattpad, if anyone wants to check me out there. (@doodlemice)

Midterms were the worst. Legitimately, the worst possible thing Fitz could think of, besides maybe the time when his roommate thought it would be funny to throw all of his pristinely organized tools into the campus pool. It wasn't that Fitz wasn't prepared, because he was. He had something of a photographic memory, or at least that's what his mum always said. In most classes he didn't even bother taking notes. Retaining facts and figures came easily to him. He could almost recite the textbook word for word, so anyone that knew him wouldn't understand why he was huddled over it at 11:00 PM, sipping bitter coffee with the rest of the school when there was a fresh layer of snow outside, perfect for sledding down the big hill on lunch trays.

The answer was simple. Fitz was a chameleon. The first week here he had learned all about blending in with the crowd. Since then, he hadn't found a real friend at university, so he followed his idiot roommate, Chad, around like a stray puppy. Chad's friends liked to tease Fitz a lot because he didn't go to the gym instead of class like the rest of them. Fitz didn't really care since his GPA was higher. The abuse was tolerable. At least he didn't look alone. He choked down the remaining black coffee and turned the page of his textbook in time with the people at his table.

A bell rung behind him around midnight, and he turned to the door, expecting another one of Chad's friends to arrive with a six pack and a bottle of cheap whiskey. Instead a girl walked through, her hair dripping wet despite the temperature outdoors teetering towards deadly. He recognized her from his English class. She was a prodigy, too, only twenty years old and on her second PhD, like him. And he'd heard her debating with their professor after class. She had the most beautiful, homey accent, and the most awful stubbornness. She also insisted on doing projects by herself, and was always the first into and out of class, so he assumed she was alone, too. He would've introduced himself if she wasn't so bloody intimidating. He'd approached her on several occasions, only to be scared away by her sharp tone towards another student or the rigid glare that seemed to be permanently resting on her face.

Now her face looked soft with exhaustion, eyes droopy and skin puffy, as she stumbled all the way to the counter and waited for an equally tired barista to greet her at the counter. Fitz looked back down to the memorized page on thermodynamics, not wanting to appear as though he were staring. He hadn't gotten a good glance at her in the four years they had been there together, and now that she was so close he realized she was, by most social standards, attractive. Her face was nice and symmetrical, her height to width ratio extraordinarily average. And her irises, despite being a hardly romanticized brown color, were glimmering with a subtle curiosity for everything around her. She must be a science person. Biochemistry, if he were to guess. (Her backpack hung low on her back, so he assumed it was full of class textbooks, and the only track at this college that would require so much reading would be biochemistry. Also, she wore a badge to the science lab.)

"You don't serve tea anymore?" The entire shop seemed to be watching her now, and Chad and his friends were snickering. Fitz made a mental note to turn off his alarm for the early tests tomorrow.

"I'm afraid we never did, ma'am. Can I interest you in a chai latte?"

"So you do have tea," the girl argued. A few girls at the table beside Fitz's giggled as one pulled up a camera phone. Fitz began to close up his textbook and put away his things, deciding he couldn't just watch and not do anything.

"Just the chai latte, ma'am."

"That has tea in it, correct?" The barista nodded. "I'll take the tea then."

"I can't do that."

Fitz stood up, drawing some attention away from the tea debate, but just as he was at the door he heard Chad whisper not-so-quietly, "Simmons the Spaz."

The girl stopped mid-sentence, her jaw clenched tightly, and her shoulders rose slightly. She didn't turn yet, still staring daggers into the coffee board straight ahead, and Fitz felt his stomach twist as the tension in the room became palpable. He slipped into a seat at an empty table near the door and watched the girl start to rotate around, then settle her razor sharp glare at Chad. She may be tiny, but she must also be terrifying, because everyone, even Chad, stopped laughing immediately.

Suddenly, the girl's face recomposed into something calm and professional, and she unclenched her fists as she glided forward gracefully, commanding the attention of every person in the room.

"Thank you, Chad. I forgot why I haven't come here in years, and now I remember. Every time you imbeciles assemble in this poor excuse for a café, you lower the IQ of the country by twenty points. You may be able to lift a hundred, you tremendous oaf, but who's the one with twelve job offers and a national decathlon title and who's the one failing bloody algebra and catcalling every passing girl because you're so insecure in your masculinity you need to harass someone to make up for it."

Then she grabbed his steaming mug of coffee and held it up right in front of his nose. "Don't call me a spaz," she concluded confidently, then tossed the drink into his face and spun around before anyone could react.

"Fishmonger!" she called as she walked out the door, wet hair bouncing behind her. Fitz, like the rest of the shop, remained in awe of the attack. Complete silence hung in the crowded place, interrupted only by the barista hurriedly providing towels to those in the splash zone.

Before Fitz could think too much about it, he flung his backpack on and exited after her. She had stormed down the icy street; he could see her silhouette against the lamplight. He immediately took off into a sprint, his backpack jostling about behind him. He didn't have a logical explanation for why he was tripping over his own feet in the early morning starlight over some random girl in a coffee shop. Something about her felt utterly right, like the gods had arranged this meeting or the stars had aligned or something. Fitz resolved to chase opportunities first, check his telescope later. This was the most running he'd done in his life, so he hoped something would click between them.

When he was nearly close enough to start walking beside her, she called out, "I'm not in the mood for more cheap name-calling, whoever you are. At least make it clever this time."

"Cream-faced loon," Fitz blurted before he could stop himself. She slowed to a halt.

"Well that's certainly different," she muttered before turning to face him, and he finally got a good look straight at her. Her eyebrows were crinkled, her eyes harsh yet again, but she was somehow less intimidating up close. Maybe it was the fact she was about four inches shorter than him, and she had to look up a bit to critically examine his face.

"Um, it's a Shakespearean insult," Fitz explained himself with an unusual stutter in his voice that could have to do with the fact he'd just run a half mile. "You used 'fishmonger' earlier, I was trying to banter, um, it came out awkwardly, I apologize."

"No, it wasn't terrible. That one's from Taming of the Shrew, right?"

"Macbeth, actually." She stared at him for awhile, her face unreadable.

"Why'd you follow me out here?" she asked, suddenly withdrawing slightly, pulling her backpack around and readying it to swing at him.

"Oh, I just have some tea back at my dorm, and I heard you were looking for some." The girl lowered her bag slowly, still looking as though she was deciding something. "My mum sends me tea every bloody month, it's almost ridiculous, and my roommate certainly doesn't take it, so it sort of piles up under my bed. I have Earl Grey, Green, and some fruity type I don't particularly prefer." The girl stayed quiet, stared at the ground for awhile, then looked back up.

"Why are you being nice to me?"

The question was spoken so softly and so delicately it made Fitz's heart break, and he smiled sadly at her. "For one, I'm a decent human being. Another explanation could be that you just poured coffee all over my jerk of a roommate's face, and that's a gutsy move, English. I respect that completely." The girl laughed for the first time, and it lit up her face in the most perfect way.

"So, tea?" she asked, allowing him to walk next to her.

"Sounds fantastic. I'm Fitz, by the way."

"Jemma Simmons. Nice to meet you." Fitz lifted his hand out to shake, but instead Simmons laced her fingers through it and held it between them. She smirked at his wide-eyed reaction before pulling him along. "Walking alone at night is terrifying. I hope you have good blood flow, because I'm going to be squeezing this hand for awhile. Now where's your dorm?"


	2. Friendship is Overrated Anyways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I really love this story so far :)

Once Fitz and Simmons were settled next to each other on her single bed, fleece blankets wrapped around them as the heater sputtered and warm mugs spewing steam at their faces, Simmons opened her laptop and hit the space bar. It was a Friday night, the last one before winter break, and they were working on finishing all of Fitz's mum's tea before he flew back with thirty boxes of it.

"You're so British," Fitz scoffed as the second half of a Doctor Who episode flashed on the screen, weeping angels flashing closer and closer as Matt Smith rambled on about blinking.

"And you're so Scottish, now go get the lights and shut it," Jemma scolded, eyes still fixed on the screen. Fitz chuckled silently and stood, then flicked the switch down and re-situated himself next to Jemma. Her thigh lay tangent to his, and Fitz calculated there were only four layers between them. Shrugging it off, he leaned until his entire side was flush to hers, their hands touching as both steadied themselves.

"I bet this's what you were doing that night the rest of us were studying for midterms," Fitz commented, and Jemma shushed him. She tapped the space bar again, pausing the show, then turned to him. She seemed almost surprised at how close their faces were, her mouth hanging, words caught in her throat as those eyes flickered to his mouth.

She cleared her throat and smiled again. "Binging on BBC shows the night before a big test is tradition. And I can't very well watch Who without tea, can I?"

"That'd be a bloody crime," Fitz mused, turning his attention back to the paused screen and tapping the space bar. He could vaguely feel her gaze on him, and he decided it just wasn't fair that she could look at him like that and he couldn't look at her without inspiring a bloody feminist lecture about 'I'm more than my body, Fitz!'. As if he didn't know that. Her wit and her stubbornness were the best aspects of her, and if she's pretty, too, then that's not a bad thing.

The next day when they met up at the coffee shop again, Fitz had intended to tell Jemma off for her 'objectification' of him the previous night, but he was caught off guard by the sight of her in a dress. Oh, the irony.

"Hey, Jem," he greeted, forcing his eyes up to meet hers.

"Oh, hi Fitz. Coffee?" He scoffed at the mere notion of that horrendous drink, but then noticed she carried some in a thermos.

"We're drinking coffee now?" Fitz asked, eyebrows raised. He meant to ask if she was drinking coffee, but 'we' seemed to fit better. After all, for the past three months they'd done everything together. 'We' could be substituted for all individual pronouns.

"I decided to give chai lattes a chance. It's the least I can do for that poor barista." She took a sip, then cringed away at the taste. "I blame you for all this 'kindness' rubbish."

"Well, if we're drinking coffee now, what should I get?" She stared over his shoulder at the board behind him, and Fitz seized the opportunity to observe the few freckles scattered across her collarbone. Fortunately, his gaze was back to her face by the time she made eye contact with him.

"Caramel Frappuccino with vanilla syrup," Jemma replied, and Fitz caught that hint of a smirk she does when she tries to trick him. She's such a terrible liar.

"That's the most expensive drink on there, isn't it?" Fitz asked halfway through an eye roll. Jemma's nose crinkled and Fitz couldn't help but laugh at how adorable it was. "Try something else."

"How about an Americano?" she suggested, then attempted another sip from her thermos and shook her head when then taste was, yet again, repulsive. "I'm throwing this away."

Fitz ordered his drink and was about to make his way back to their table when he ran straight into Jemma, flinging hot, dark liquid into her beautiful white dress. She just stared down at herself, obviously in shock, and Fitz stared at the mess, too terrified of a rising outburst to do anything.

"Christ, I'm so sorry Jemma," he eventually sputtered out, grabbing a towel from the barista and dabbing at her dress with it. Then he realized where his hand was and dropped the towel frantically, hoping to minimize the awkwardness of the situation, but failing when he bent to pick it up and bumped his head into her stomach.

"Just, stop," Jemma blurted, wrists flexed and fingers spread.

"Sorry," Fitz mumbled once more, handing her the towel to clean herself. Jemma sucked in a deep breath and exhaled shakily.

"This towel won't do anything, we need to get this in the laundry ASAP." Before Fitz could react to Jemma's surprising calmness she was grabbing his hand, making his own heart flutter, and pulling him out the door. "You're paying," she informed him as they entered the empty laundry room in the dreary basement of Carter Hall.

Fitz quickly searched his pockets for quarters, and thankfully he was able to scrounge up four before Jemma screamed at him. He set them triumphantly on the machine before turning proudly at Jemma. She was less than impressed, eyes wide like he had somehow forgotten something. Did the washer cost two dollars? Had there been sudden washing machine inflation in the last month?

"I have to take the dress off to wash it, Fitz!" Jemma shouted as he turned to check the label.

"Oh, uh, yeah." Fitz brought a hand to his hair nervously, wishing he would never be yelled at by her again. Then he was struck with a partial idea. "Well, you can have my sweater, one sec."

Fitz fumbled with the staticky sweater, getting it stuck around his armpits before tugging it off completely. His flannel shirt underneath had been hastily buttoned that morning, so one side of the shirt was higher than the other, leaving a sloppy button hanging at the bottom and a floppy collar with an open hole at the top. "Sorry 'bout that mess," he said as he handed the sweater to her. "Here."

Jemma grabbed it then stared at him for awhile with the same expression as before. Fitz gave her a look that said "What?!", and she sighed. "Turn around!"

"Ohhh, sorry." Fitz closed his eyes and covered them with a hand. Then, for good measure, he turned to face the door.

"No peeking," Jemma breathed, somewhat calmer than before, and Fitz smiled, knowing she couldn't see him. He heard the rustle of fabric behind him, then the small clink of a zipper against the metal interior of the machine.

"This is not how I planned for this day to go," Jemma muttered before closing the washing machine lid. "You can look, now."

Fitz opened his eyes and let his hand fall to the side, then, bracing himself, pivoted back to face her. Jemma was wearing his favorite red sweater like a dress, and he was certain it had been stretched out beyond repair. He'd let that go, through, because she honestly looked amazing in it. In a domestic, making-breakfast-together kind of way. Fitz almost laughed at how clear that image was in his mind.

Jemma slammed the lid closed and pushed the coins into place before leaning back onto the machine behind her and blowing a strand of hair out of the way. Then she looked at Fitz with eyes full of sad hilarity.

"How did you plan for this day to go?" Fitz asked as he approached Jemma. She closed the lid behind her and slid onto the machine, legs dangling over the side.

"Well..." Jemma started, smile bright as a small bit of light shone through the high, dusty window. Fitz took a spot leaning against the machine opposite hers, and she looked down at her hands shyly. This expression was new.

Jemma took a deep breath and looked back up to him. "We would start with coffee, obviously. I really just planned on sitting down with you and trying something new, you know?" Fitz nodded.

"Too bad that coffee was garbage," Fitz laughed, but Jemma didn't join him, and he was certain she was still mad about the dress. "I'm sorry I ruined your dress, Jemma. You looked beautiful in it." Then she smiled, and Fitz felt giddy.

"The godawful coffee wasn't what I wanted to try," Jemma admitted, and her voice seemed somehow heavier than usual. Fitz stood straighter, pushing himself from the washer behind him and lingering in the aisle a few feet away from her. He had a feeling he knew what she was saying, but he feigned confusion, knowing there was a chance he could be misreading this entirely. "I'm glad you liked the dress," she continued, leaning towards him almost unnoticeably. The smirk she wore drove him half out of his mind. "Because I wore it for you."

Fitz couldn't help it anymore, the corners of his lips turned up in a half-concealed grin, and he unconsciously took another step towards Jemma, until her knees brushed his hips. He could smell the scent of coffee still lingering on her skin, mixed with the sharp mint toothpaste aroma of her breath coming out softly by his lips.

"I've sort of been craving something other than tea," Jemma breathed with a small laugh, which was matched by Fitz's breathless chuckle.

"To trying new things," Fitz whispered, watching Jemma's eyes as they darted around his suddenly close face. He placed a steadying hand on her side.

"To trying new things," Jemma agreed before tilting her chin down and meeting Fitz's lips with her own.


	3. I Mean I Guess Some Coffee is Okay

Fitz walked into the first mostly-empty café he'd seen in the airport, pulling a purple broken-wheeled suitcase behind him and searching through his pockets for a few dollars. "Tea, please," he said as he reached the counter, and a barista nodded and turned to a metal pitcher behind him. As Fitz waited, he fiddled with his new ring and scanned the nearly bare coffee shop for familiar faces. He was happy to say he'd found one.

"Hey, um, Jenna, right?" Fitz asked the brown-haired girl reading science journals behind him. She looked up and smiled in return, then folded the corner of her page and stood to give a proper greeting.

"It's Jemma, actually. I hate it when people replace the m's with the n's." Jenna's forehead wrinkled with disgust, but Fitz could sense the underlying smile. She pulled him into a hug despite her expression, and Fitz was delighted to know she still smelled like coffee.

"Oh, right. I'm Leo. Do you remember me?" Fitz asked as he pulled back, and Jemma let out a mind-bogglingly beautiful laugh.

"Considering that we've just spent two magical weeks together in Europe, you'd be hard to forget." Jemma winked before giving him a light kiss on the cheek.

"I'm glad you enjoyed the honeymoon, Jems," Fitz replied with an elated grin. The barista then handed over a warm cup of tea, and Fitz threw a five dollar bill on the counter and took a seat next to his amazing wife. Jemma put away her journal before taking another sip of chai latte (which she had come to quite like since their first date).

"You know," Jemma started, placing a hand over where Fitz's rested on the table. "Our honeymoon's technically not over yet." He finished his sip of tea and chuckled at her, then turned his hand over beneath hers so that he could interlock fingers with her.

"Jemma, you know I love you, and there's nothing in the world I'd rather do right now, but they're gonna need us back at the lab soon." Fitz kissed her knuckles as she frowned slightly, then turned his attention back to his tea. "You can't win a Nobel prize by taking endless romantic vacations."

"I'm not going to win the Nobel prize in the next hour or so, I can tell you that." Fitz laughed against his cup, then finished the rest of his tea. As he went to stand and throw the cup away, Jemma handed hers to him and batted her eyes like a four-year-old. Fitz decided her eyes would never grow to be uninteresting, and he would always be distracted by the cloudy, dark color of the irises and the way her pupils dilated around him, especially now.

Jemma stood as he returned to the table, then grasped the handle of her suitcase, but before she could turn to leave, Fitz grabbed her wrist and pulled her smoothly into his chest. He moved his hands to her lower back, keeping his eyes focused on her close-up face and smiling as her breathing came out more erratically.

"Hi," Jemma whispered, tapping her nose to his and wrapping her fingers around the base of his neck.

"Hi," Fitz whispered back before capturing her lips in his. He never thought they'd be one of those excessive-PDA couples, the ones in high school making out all over the place. But when they'd started dating, keeping it a secret seemed too difficult, not when he just wanted his hand in hers all day. Plus, everyone already suspected they were up to something once Fitz moved into an apartment with Jemma. Since university, they'd tried to dull down the public snogging, at least.

Yet here they stood in a café with tons of traffic passing by, locking lips so intensely people had to look away. Fitz almost wanted to laugh, but his mouth was otherwise occupied. Lots of things had changed since university. They'd watched less and less Doctor Who as the years rolled by, and they'd stared at each other more and more other whenever she even tried to open her laptop. Fitz knew more about biochemistry than now, and Jemma had learned how to sit through his rambling about engineering. It was all about blending their interests and hobbies, their likes and dislikes. For example, Jemma tasted like her chai latte, so Fitz thought that maybe he was getting accustomed to coffee now. He pulled away smiling, breath coming n fast now.

"I think Director Coulson can go another day without us," Fitz managed, grabbing both of their bags and Jemma's hand. "I bet there's a hotel along the way."

"There is, I checked," Jemma replied, somehow perfectly in shape and breathing normally.

As Fitz was pulled through the busy airport, he reflected on his experiences with tea. Fitz was delighted to say that most of his memories now included Jemma, leaning against his side, her mug's steam rising towards his forehead, and her lips light and a bit wet against his cheek. Then he remembered that first fateful night in the campus coffee shop, his eyes drooping with exhaustion and her damp hair speckled with snowflakes. She'd demanded tea, and yelled when the barista only had coffee. Chasing after her, knowing she was his only chance of getting away from his terrible friends, that was a bittersweet moment for him.

But Jemma was like the sugar in his black coffee, making the bitter parts of life much, much sweeter. Fitz liked to think he was the vanilla creamer in her chai latte, but he knew that wasn't true. She was completely perfect on her own, and half the time she didn't even add creamer to her order anyways. Still, as they stumbled into a cab and hastily gave the driver the location, as her vanilla bean latte lingered on his lips, it was good to know that, even if it was just sometimes, she craved him. Sometimes she enjoyed the familiar flavor of his tea-stained lips. And that was enough to make him happy.


End file.
